


I'm Sticking With You

by cedarcliffe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarcliffe/pseuds/cedarcliffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as Sam told himself that Dean was up to something, that nothing good could come of it, he kept following his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sticking With You

Sam pounded after Dean, soles of his shoes scudding unevenly over rust red dirt as he chased him along the winding path, waist-high grasses snatching at his legs with dry yellow fingers and the sun a brand of heat across the back of his neck, air moving sluggish and hot through his lungs. He lengthened his stride, trying to catch up, to get close enough to snatch at the fluttering hem of Dean's t-shirt and tug him back to his side, and had almost worked up the momentum to lunge for him when Dean veered to the right, plunging into the field. Sam swung around after him, and beneath his own growl of frustration he heard the sharp, breathless bark of Dean's laughter. It made him flush and bare his teeth and run faster, slicing over the trail his brother tore as he rushed headlong past the rusted frame of a truck and swerved by a burnt-out shed, slipping around a barn and out of sight.

Panic was a bright, bitter taste on the back of his tongue when Sam skidded around the corner with wild eyes and wild thoughts ( _dean dean brothermine where_ ) and crashed into the open circle of Dean's arms. It was so unexpected, so startling, that when Dean pulled him closer Sam fought him automatically, shoving against his chest with hands that shook with a combination of adrenaline and fatigue.

Dean, what the fuck.

Dean just grinned down at him, tugged him against his chest and pressed a kiss between Sam's eyes because Sam hated that and had always hated that, but mostly because he crinkled his nose just the same at seventeen as he did at five.

Then Sam was swaying into space while Dean danced away ahead of him, waving his hands and waggling his eyebrows, grin flashing candy-white and sharp as a switchblade, and Sam had no choice but to lurch after him with a groan. Dean was like a daylight will-o-wisp, luring Sam further and further off the beaten track and into farmland that had been left to the weeds for what looked like a decade at least, turning pink across the bridge of his nose as the sun burnt new freckles into his skin, sweat-glittering, lean, lovely, and just out of reach. Smiling like the cat that ate the canary. 

As much as Sam told himself that Dean was up to something, that nothing good could come of it, that he should throw up his hands and turn around and storm back to the sunny motel kitchenette and his dog-eared, broken-spined  _Cat's Cradle_  paperback, he kept following his brother. He followed him around the half-slumped, caving hulk of the barn and the hunched shape of an old wooden shack, along a stretch of fencing half a mile wide with flat, jagged posts that stuck up through the earth like broken teeth. He followed him right up the steps of a farmhouse with empty squares where the windows should've been, the peeling paint eggshell blue, trimming white and cracked.

If Sam narrowed his eyes and kicked at his imagination a little, he thought it could've been beautiful once, before time bleached it all away. Panels the deep, rich color of a clear sky, framed in ivory. Flowers in the pots on the windowsill, not cracked or filled with dust. Empty panes in the door filled with colored glass. The sound of laughter. The sound of life.

It was beautiful now, with Dean standing in the open doorway, holding his hand out to Sam like an offering. But the porch creaked a warning and Sam hesitated, looked dubiously at the house. Dean smirked.

Something wrong?

We shouldn't be here.

We've done worse.

Sam huffed.  _Dean_.

Dean imitated him.  _Sam_. Then he wiggled his fingers, put more challenge and mischief into the gesture than anyone else ever could, and though Sam was scowling it was mostly because he couldn't actually resist, and he let Dean pull him inside with a snap of his arm.

The sun poured in at a steep slant through the windows, dust dancing in the honeyed light and coating the warped floorboards, save for a few trails of bootprints that lead up and down the stairs, winding through the rest of the house, splitting off like lines on a map. Dean's bootprints.

Sam was led toward the stairs, pushed up them ahead of his brother, and Dean had been up here so it couldn't be  _un_ safe but god _damn_  this old house made Sam nervous, and he took the screeching steps gingerly, barely reassured by the warm pressure of Dean's hand on the small of his back as he ushered Sam up, and up, and up, and then left, down the hall, past two closed doors to the one at the end which stood barely ajar, a sliver of light softening its edge.

Sam paused, hand hovering over the round brass knob, and Dean reached over his shoulder to push it open.

It was a small room, smooth cream walls that were greying at the corners with age and pale maple floors, varnish worn to nothing, but the bay windows that curled around it showed the wide stretch of the land around them for long, rolling miles, and with the grass rippling outside with a rushing hiss and the sun seeping in on a breeze, it didn't feel small. It was also clean, cleaner than it should've been, floor dustless and corners swept free of cobwebs and leaves. It smelled faintly of car freshener.

Sam grinned, was turning to give Dean a wry, expectant look when he spotted the pile of fluffy whiteness in the corner, and then it was all he could do not to either laugh or punch his brother.

He had been calling to have extra pillows brought to their room for what felt like every damn day of their fathers now three-week-long absence, frustrated as to where they could be going. He had suspected Dean, but what his brother could want or need with so many pillows defied Sam's imagination, and if it  _was_  Dean, there was little he could do about it anyway. Aside from wait for the inevitable prank.

He hadn't expected Dean to do...this.

Dude, you nested.

 _Dude_. Dean's knuckles jabbed hard into his shoulder, and Sam swatted at him. It's not a nest.

It's totally a nest.

A  _love_  nest, maybe.

Whatever man. A nest is a nest.

Shut the fuck up, bitch.

And then Sam was laughing, Dean catching him in a headlock and swinging him around to heave him into the pile of pillows, kicking the door shut behind him and diving in after, the two of them rolling together, legs tangling and arms flailing and hands clutching, wrestling and tussling and at some point Sam bit Dean's shoulder and Dean sucked a hickey beneath Sam's ear, and then it wasn't just their legs that were tangled but their fingers, their breaths, their tongues.

Sam felt Dean's heartbeat against his cheek as he listened to it with one ear, and Dean didn't think there was anything sweeter than the curve of Sam's spine.

Later, in the heat of mid-afternoon, both of them smiling lazy, sated smiles each looking at the way the sunlight turned the other's eyes clear and bright, Dean curled his arms around Sam's, pinning them to his sides, and pressed Sam snug against him, hips knocking and noses nudging. He rolled them over, and Sam squirmed and wriggled beneath him, wining protest and trying to free his arms as Dean went dead-weight heavy above him, crushing the air out of him in surprised gush. Their skins stuck together the same way Sam's arms stuck to the impala's leather seats on a hot day, uncomfortable and clinging.

Dean! Mother _fucker_  get  _off_.

Dean was humming something, grinning into the crook of Sam's neck, and Sam wanted to kick him if he could only get his leg free enough to manage it.

Seriously, Dean, you're all sweaty and gross and  _heavy_ , dude,  _jesus_. Fuck  _off,_ it's too  _hot_  for this shit. Dean. Dean. Dean.  _Dean._

Dean was singing now, soft rough rumble of his voice more pleasant than the loud, obnoxious, in-transit noisemaking he was infamous for, and Sam quieted, panting. Listening.

I'm sticking with you. 'Cause I'm made out of glue. Anything that you might do. I'm gonna do too.

Velvet Underground does it better, Sam informed him flatly, and Dean started singing it in his ear, adding a shrill and ugly note and breathing hot down the side of Sam's neck because it was Dean, and bugging his little brother had always been and always would be one of his primary directives.

Asshole, Sam sniped, and twisted to cover Dean's mouth with his own.

He felt the buzz in his lips as Dean kept right on humming.


End file.
